


Between the Shadows of the Soul

by sequence_fairy



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: This is how she loves him - blood and fire and revenge and soft, golden mornings.





	Between the Shadows of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel/gifts).



> Written for the [TDN](http://thedeckerstarnetwork.tumblr.com) Valentine's fic exchange.

_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
 _or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
 _I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
 _in secret, between the shadow and the soul._  
  
_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
 _but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
 _thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,_  
 _risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.’_  
   - XVII (I Do Not Love You) - Pablo Neruda

\--------------------------

**  
** Chloe sees it in the slanted shadows on the ceiling, cars passing on the street below, and his body warm beside hers. His hair; a riot of curls on her pillow. The slow, unerring, slip of her hand down his spine. The way she can’t help but gravitate towards him. How he is the immovable object that has met her unstoppable force, and how between them, it is a flashover hotter than the proverbial beginning of creation. **  
**

(And he would know, he says, his voice a deep vibration just below her breasts, he was there, after all. He breathed it all into life, he tells her, while he’s between her thighs, and Chloe thinks for a moment that she might have been there too, in the hanging moment between the void and life, as she hangs on a precipice of her own.)

She finds it in downy feathers swept into the dark corners of her bedroom, softer than anything she’s ever touched before or since. They settle like a cloud in her hand, and she pours them over his head, watching them fall like snow against his hair, and Lucifer laughs, and bears her back against the bed, and fucks her while the feathers cling to his skin. Chloe rolls them over, plants her knees on either side of his hips and it’s in the way he gasps, half agony, half bliss, his mouth falling open and his head falling back, neck exposed and vulnerable when she rises over him in his bed, her bed, their bed.

She loves him like this; all soft and boneless and nearly purring as she strokes through feathers no mortal hands should ever touch. He melts under her touch, and Chloe has never felt such power - to be able to bring this archangel to his knees, willingly. She loves the way he falls for her, loves the way he loses himself in her skin. She feels bathed in his glory, blasphemous in a way she hasn’t felt since the first time she swore in a church as a child. Her breath hitches on his name, and the cheshire cat grin on his mouth makes her reach out and pull him down again.

She knows it in the way he trusts her, with his name (the true one, not the one he wears for show), with his history (all of it, from the golden summers to the fire-wrought nightmares), with everything else – his scars, his moods, the protection of her body with his own. Chloe finds it in the way she trusts him without question - when she leaves her daughter with him, when she arches under his hands, under his mouth, under the soft drag of feathers against her skin.  She sees it when he looks at her like she lit the sun, even though she knows he put it in the sky.

(They move together like bodies in collapsing orbit, and the end is an inevitable collision, but oh, Chloe thinks, as her nails dig into his shoulders and he grips her under her thighs, and the shower wall is slick and cold against her superheated skin, she’d happily go out like this - the pleasure centre of her brain lit up like the city he loves and her name wrung from his lips in a broken moan and the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek.)

(They breathe each other in as they come down.)

It’s still there in those red eyes, glowing in the shadows. It’s there when the city lights are spread out in front of him like a blanket of terrestrial stars and he looks like the living embodiment of all the things humanity should know better than to seek (and Chloe can’t wait to try them all).

Chloe loves how the shadows seem to cling to him as he prowls the penthouse in the deep night. How he leaves her breathless when he looks at her, ancient and ageless. How the feathers are sometimes sharp as knives, how her blood sings when he grabs her hand and pulls her off the balcony, and throws them both into the abyss. She’d follow him all the way down, hand in hand. He would never ask, but oh, sometimes, Chloe wishes he would.

She loves him like this; all simmering power and glittering rage. He is barely contained violence in that stalking panther stride.  It kindles something deep inside her, something primal. She thinks she should be afraid, that she should shrink back like everyone else, but she is the one who steps forward. Chloe is the one who touches his shoulder, the one who draws her palm down the side of his face, watching the hellfire in his eyes bank and smoulder and soften into warm bourbon. She is the one who watches the slow bloom of a smile across his face, and she is the one whose name he says with hushed awe. The sound of it pours liquid sunlight into her veins.

She loves him, in all his facets. The light. The dark. The euphoria and the rage. The topaz in the sunlight, the shadows, dark and deep that curl around his shoulders, and the fire - the fire that burns in his gaze, his touch, his kiss. 

She loves it all. 

Lightbringer. Morningstar. Punisher. King of Hell. 

Lucifer, her Lucifer.


End file.
